


Use Your Words

by palimpsessed



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: America, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I brought him back for no reason, Canon Compliant, Communication, Communication is Sexy, Declarations Of Love, Does anyone remember that patient on the phone with Dr. Wellbelove in Carry On named Balthazar?, Fanart, I mean this is post WS there is going to be angst, Including mentions of, London, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Daphne Grimm, Mentioned Fiona Pitch, Mentioned Malcolm Grimm - Freeform, Mentioned Mitali Bunce, Mentioned Nicodemus Petty, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Simon Snow's Wings and Tail, This picks up almost immediately after the WS Prologue, Touch Aversion, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch is a dramatic gay, Until AWTWB, Watford, assuming they ever get their shit together, because I love them and Baz is a soft marshmallow who definitely ships them, because this is me of course that's a tag, but it will get better I promise, don't worry they do, some minor Penny/Shep as a treat, they actually are only mentioned once in the same sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsessed/pseuds/palimpsessed
Summary: Baz doesn't know where he and Simon stand after that moment on the beach in Wayward Son. He also doesn't know if he can ask. All he really does know is that he's still in love with Simon and he has to find a way to say it before he runs out of time again.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 50
Kudos: 148
Collections: Carry_On_Summer_Exchange_2020





	1. Stuck in the Middle With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lincyclopedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/gifts).



> Hello! Here it is, my second ever Simon Snow fic, written as a part of the Carry On Summer Exchange.
> 
> This is a gift for [HermioneGirl96](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneGirl96/pseuds/HermioneGirl96).
> 
> Their prompt was for Simon and Baz to address their relationship issues in the canon-verse with a happy ending. And honestly, I think that's all any of us want! I don't know if I did the prompt justice because Baz being Baz spends the first three chapters just stuck in his head. And I'd like to apologize in advance because this is only my second published fic, but it's already the second one that I definitely cried while writing, so chances are, you will cry while reading. But! There is a happy ending. It's not exactly frolicking through a field of wildflowers, but it's okay!
> 
> For context, this fic starts almost immediately after the Wayward Son prologue, on the flight from San Diego to London because I had to be difficult and couldn't just be like "one year later..." This piece is about Simon and Baz's relationship and it is not plot driven (unlike a certain vampire I could name), but the timeline overlaps with the "trouble at Watford". I have a headcanon/backstory for that and it kept sneaking in over my protests, but it's not relevant to this story and all you really need to know is what I included. If you'd like to read my headcanon, I made a post on my tumblr and it's linked in the end notes on Chapter 1.
> 
> Also, this is Baz only POV.

#### BAZ

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do this. Sit next to Simon for the next twelve hours and pretend like I don't know that he wishes I weren't here.

I know that now.

I've been convinced of it for a while, but I'm fairly certain of it now.

He was going to break up with me on the beach.

I think he was going to break up with me back in his flat a million years (a week?) ago.

The only reason we're still together (are we still together?) is because of Bunce and her impeccable (terrible?) timing.

I'm tempted to just ask him. To have it out right now. But how do you break up with someone, then spend half a day next to them in what is essentially a flying metal tube of death?

Perhaps we'll get lucky in the end and the engines will actually die this time.

I've always said it would end in flames.

(I don't have a choice in that, do I?) (It doesn't seem like anything else is powerful enough to take me out.) (Well, one thing is. It's sitting right next to me.)

America did its best to end me, but it could have saved itself the trouble. Simon Snow has always been the one holding my fate in his hands.

I've been watching those hands. Coveting them, the way I covet everything else about him that I don't get to have anymore.

How long have I wanted those hands? To touch me, to hold me, to just hold?

How many times have I seen them covered in blood and thought about it being mine? (Or wanted to lick it off.)

I can't keep doing this to myself.

I close my eyes and force my head away from his. He may burn less brightly these days, but his gravitational pull hasn't diminished.

He's still the centre of my universe.

But I can't be the centre of his. Simon Snow needs to love himself first.

I just wish I knew how to help him get there.

The road trip didn't help.

(I suppose that's a fantasy we've all been fed, just like everything else.) (But at least he started smiling again.)

Therapy didn't help.

Or, maybe it would have. If he hadn't quit.

Bunce and I both tried to talk to him about it. (As much as I can ever get up the courage to talk to him about anything.)

"If it's so good for me, why don't you try it?" He'd shot back nastily and slammed the door in my face with his tail.

I didn't have a reply to that, and I didn't bring it up again.

Being together didn't help.

Would it be better if we were apart?

If Simon keeps trying to break up with me, maybe I should let him. Maybe he's been trying to tell me that's what he needs. (Does he know what he needs? He'd be the only one.)

"Simon--" I say, turning back to him and nearly knocking him in the forehead as he turns to me and says, "When--" at the same time.

"What?" We both ask.

Crowley, we're bad at this.

We've always been bad at this.

I never learned how to tell Simon how I felt about him, never learned to say what I really wanted to say. I spent seven and a half years ruthlessly suppressing every thought and feeling (and urge) I had around him. He spent seven and a half years hating me. Maybe those are habits we don't know how to break, no matter how much we love each other.

Does Simon love me? Would he even know? He says he didn't know how he felt about me when we were at Watford, which isn't wholly encouraging.

As far as I can tell, Bunce and I are the only people in his life who've ever offered him love. Maybe that's the problem. If you've never been loved, how would you know what to do with love when you had it?

Snow and I sit there, blinking stupidly at each other. He drops his eyes, worrying his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue in a way that makes me feel like screaming.

"You go first," I say instead, because I'm a bloody coward.

When he continues silent, I offer what I hope is an encouraging smile, which probably just comes off as manic.

"Why did you come to America with us?" He asks.

He seems frustrated with himself, like this isn't what he'd meant to say.

Where is this going?

 _Because you're my boyfriend,_ I should say. _And I love you. And I wanted to spend time with you. And this shit holiday seemed like the only way to get you off the bloody sofa!_

 _Because I wouldn't be happy anywhere without you,_ I should say.

But I've already told him that. He didn't want to hear it.

He doesn't want to hear any of what I have to say.

"I wasn't going to let you and Bunce have all the fun while I sat literally stewing in my flat alone."

He rolls his eyes and juts his chin a bit and he almost looks like he's on the verge of growling.

While I don't think that would go over well in the middle of economy, it would at least feel familiar.

"What am I supposed to say?" I ask him before he has a chance to respond. "You don't want to hear the truth."

His eyes flash. I can't tell if it's anger or panic. Maybe it's both.

"What do you mean?"

Everything I want to tell him is so desperate to come out that I can feel it building up in my mouth, behind my lips, trying to pry them open. They're like fangs I can't retract, and I'm terrified that if I let them out, they'll cause more damage than I could ever do to him with my actual teeth.

"I already told you," I manage, and I know it sounds like I'm grinding the words out, because I am, because if I open my mouth, I don't know what will come tumbling out. "I'm only happy when I'm with you."

His face falls a bit. "Oh. Right."

I don't say anything else.

Maybe I should. Maybe I should have said something else before.

What can I say? How is that a statement that's unclear?

I know I've called Simon a moron to his face, but he's not stupid. Oblivious, maybe. But I'm sure he's perfectly capable of understanding me.

 _But you're not happy when you're with me,_ I think at him, but don't say. _What will make you happy, Simon?_

"But you're not happy," he says to me, like he's the one with the telepathic vampire abilities he used to accuse me of back when we were fifth years.

That is a minefield I haven't the faintest hope of navigating. I've survived a number of magickal explosions in my day, courtesy of Simon's uncontrollable nuclear reactor, but I'm not sure this is the sort I'll live through.

Maybe he really is going to break up with me on a plane, an hour into our flight, with the entirety of North America below us.

I suppose it would be bad form to set myself on fire.

Bloody Snow.

I avoid, sidestepping all of my own confessions in favour of maybe encouraging one from him.

"Would you rather I hadn't come along?"

"What? No," he's shocked and maybe even a little scandalised at the suggestion. "I--I just…"

"I was just asking," I say, hoping to keep him from getting himself too worked up. "I wanted to be here. I wanted us to spend the summer together. I liked doing that, last year."

He offers a sort of a half-hearted tug at one side of his mouth.

Last year. Simon was still quiet and withdrawn, but at least he smiled and laughed and touched me. At least I could still tease him. At least I knew he still wanted this, wanted us. At least I felt confident that it was still the best thing for him.

I could ask him. Right now.

But I'm too conscious of all the strangers around us. And even more conscious of our friends.

I've seen the look of pity on Bunce's face when Simon pulls away. I've not seen it lately, because she was feeling too bad about her own heartbreak.

I absolutely refuse to give her an opportunity to use it on me again.

I don't need Penelope Bunce to feel sorry for me. I'm not that pathetic.

(Who am I kidding? I am exactly that pathetic.)

"But you would rather I had stayed behind? In America."

Simon looks pained.

Good, then at least he knows how I feel.

He scrubs at his face and pulls on the curls currently cascading over his forehead in a way that is truly bordering on obscene. (Everything with Snow is borderline obscene. The way he bites his lip, the way he licks food off his fingers, the way he swallows his tea.)

For several strained heartbeats (on both our parts), I think he won't answer.

It wouldn't be the first time he's just shut down on me on the hard questions.

Then, so quietly it's a good thing I'm a vampire and seated next to him and always hanging on his every word, "I don't want that."

I'm afraid of pushing him further, and pushing him away. But we're so close to something, and I can't let it go. Not this time. Not again.

The last year and a half has been cluttered with so many missed opportunities, because I'm a coward and I'm so weak for him. Too weak to ask for an answer.

_Get a grip, Basilton, you're allowed to ask questions. You're his boyfriend. (For the moment.)_

"But you don't want me."

Snow's head snaps up so quickly, _I_ practically get whiplash. His eyes are wide and his throat muscles are twitching. _(Crowley)._

(I want to bite him. Not hard. Maybe just a little nibble. Maybe harder.)

(Twelve hours. Two continents. Twenty major arteries. Four crosses, but none of them close enough to make any sort of difference.)

I try to home in on the smell of Simon's panic, which sours his usual buttery scent. Like the butter's gone off a bit. (Would he find it funny to know that his blood smells like butter?) (You are what you eat.)

"I--" He stammers, heart rate picking up and breath going shallow.

His sympathetic nervous system is kicking in.

As a predator, I should be flattered. As his boyfriend, I should be worried.

I don't want Simon to fear me. (I don't want him to fear me anymore.) I don't want him to feel like he can't talk to me. I know how hard it's always been for him to use his words, and as much as I'm tempted to whip out my wand and cast **_Use Your Words_** on him right now, I resist. I'd never cast something on him without his consent (anymore) and certainly not a spell like that. I can't force him to talk to me if he doesn't want to. I need Simon to trust me. I need him to know that he can.

He used to.

I spent years throwing curses at him and picking fights with him and sending chimeras after him, and then the very first time I called him Simon, he put his hand on my shoulder and gave me everything he had without a second thought for how I would use it.

And then he did it again. And again.

He was so open then. He was fearless.

"I do," he whispers. Swallows. Adds, "but—"

And just leaves it hanging there. Suspended from his mouth to mine, penduluming between fates: he loves me. He loves me not. He loves me...

And I let it swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.
> 
> If you'd like to read my headcanon about the trouble at Watford, [here's a link to the post I made](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/post/624176988035366912/headcanon-for-the-trouble-at-watford).


	2. Come Home to Roost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wayward travellers return to an unexpected welcoming committee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst. Enjoy!

I thought we were going on directly to Watford from the airport, but Professor Bunce (of the elbow patch variety) and Dr. Wellbelove are waiting outside the gates and inform us that we're going to have a "chat". (The other Professor Bunce is still at Watford, which is probably good for our Bunce, because her father doesn't appear to be the type to commit infanticide in broad daylight. And Dr. Wellbelove took an oath.) (The Normal kind, but it still holds.)

I'm not sure what to make of our welcome.

I half-expected the entire Coven to descend upon us like a plague of locusts. (Locusts would be preferable in the case of some Coven members.)

But it's just the two of them.

We're probably low priority, in spite of recent infractions.

Even my father isn't here.

I know there isn't the slightest possibility that he hasn't heard about what we got up to on holiday. I suppose he could have finally decided to wash his hands of me. A queer half-vampire who's as good as outed himself in every way imaginable while abroad is a hefty liability for a man like Malcolm Grimm. Maybe even Daphne couldn't persuade him. Maybe she didn't try.

Circumstances being different, I would have expected Fiona in her MG ready to flay me alive for my insurmountable stupidity. Even being stuck in a coffin for six weeks and nearly dead (again) wasn't enough to woo my aunt's sympathy. I doubt going viral using magic to slay a pack of off-the-rack vampires at a faire would win her over.

That attitude is a large part of why we're all in this mess.

Well, _we_ 're not exactly in it, are we?

Leave it to Bunce to make it sound like the entire magickal world was imploding and it was up to us to swoop in (literally, in Simon's case) and save the day.

The only people doing any swooping are two concerned fathers.

Daughters are hugged and mildly scolded. (Wellbelove immediately looks like she's regretting her decision to return.)

Bunce tolerates the physical display for all of half a minute before she pulls away from her father and immediately starts in on him.

"What's going on? Has anyone been able to get in or out? What happened to the protection spells on the gates? Have you talked to mum? Is the Coven—"

Professor Bunce holds up both his hands to ward her off, then sets them heavily on her shoulders. "You're going to have to let the adults handle this one."

"I am an adult," Bunce immediately argues. "And it's never stopped us before."

"Well, pardon me for caring about you, but this isn't your fight and no one is trying to recruit you into it."

He doesn't mention the Mage, but we all know who he's talking about. Neither Professor Bunce was thrilled with their daughter's insistence on befriending Simon and charging ring finger first into battle at his side. They tried to warn her away from Snow before he even started at Watford, but Bunce being Bunce, that just encouraged her.

"You've gotten into enough trouble already," Professor Bunce continues. "Don't make things worse."

Bunce is opening her mouth again, but her father closes it for her. "This isn't up for spirited debate, Penny. We're taking you home."

"You should come with me, son," Dr. Wellbelove says to Simon, and I try not to let the pet name get under my skin. (I don't have a problem with Dr. Wellbelove calling Simon 'son'. I have a problem with the fact that he's the only one who does.)

Wellbelove is standing right there between them, but I know she's not a threat to my happiness. And I won't begrudge Simon a father figure who isn't going to try to murder him in a desperate grab for power. "I heard that you'd been injured."

"Oh," Simon blinks. "But Penny fixed me up with magic."

He looks uncomfortable at the thought of going with Dr. Wellbelove. He looks at me.

I don't know what that look means. Am I expected to back him up? Offer to go with him? Does he really think I'm going to just let him drive off in the Wellbelove family Volvo without knowing where we stand? Again?

Before I can say anything, Bunce speaks instead.

"Basil, too." I turn my head to glare at her. I'm tempted to hiss, just for the drama, but it's not like Bunce will be impressed. Besides, I'm more civilised than that.

"I'm perfectly fine, Bunce."

She rolls her eyes. They land on Shepard, who miraculously has remained silent this entire time. His eyes are wide as saucers as he gawps at everything and everyone in the terminal. He's probably thinking of all the new Maybes just waiting to be converted to the Gospel of Omaha, according to Shepard. New sheep for his flock.

"Oh, yeah," Bunce says, putting on a decent job of insouciance tinged with a sprinkle of annoyance. "This is Shepard."

Shepard immediately puts out his hand to Professor Bunce, an overly eager smile on his face.

"He's from Omaha, Nebraska," Bunce announces before he can manage, "even though no one, except unfortunately for us, knows where that is. He's a Normal, he knows about magic. And he's been cursed by a demon."

"He, what?" Simon asks, staring at Shepard.

To their credit, Professor Bunce and Dr. Wellbelove take this new information fully in their stride. I suppose nothing is liable to faze them anymore.

I suppose nothing should faze me, either.

"All right, Shepard," Professor Bunce takes his hand, looking him over. He pauses for several seconds on the patchwork of pins adorning Shepard's denim jacket, looking mildly intrigued by whatever story they tell. Shepard's got one for nearly every aggressively charming anecdote about a magickal creature he foisted upon Bunce and me in the cab of his pickup truck on our way to the Hoover Dam. (He's got a pin for the Hoover Dam, too.)

I'm inclined to believe that the Normal's typical brash American bravado won't get him nearly as far with the stiff upper lips here, but I've also witnessed him charm an actual smile out of Penelope Bunce, so anything is possible. (I don't think Bunce knew that she was smiling at him. I'm not going to tell her, either. It will be much more fun to just stand back and watch it slowly dawn on her once she's already in way too deep.) (I've been there. I'm going to get something in return for my years of misery if it kills me. Again.)

We're clumsily shuffled in an amorphous blob outside toward our waiting chariots.

"Penny, Shepard, you'd best come with me and uh—" Professor Bunce looks at a loss as to how to sort me in the grouping. "Well, Basilton, I suppose you'd better go with Simon then."

That's one vote in my favour.

It's almost enough to make me rethink my evaluation of the professor's worthiness as an actual professor. (Almost.)

But then I find myself shoved up into the front seat next to Dr. Wellbelove, with Simon and Agatha in incredibly awkward silence in the backseat. (Simon insisted I take the front because I've got the longest legs. Which was stupid, but also thoughtful, and of course I gave in because I'm so desperate for any little sprinkling of attention he'll give me.)

Wellbelove looked relieved at being let out of the obligation to try to make small talk with her father on the ride, so I allow myself to feel magnanimous.

I wonder why Mrs. Wellbelove didn't come. Are we official Coven business? Will we have to submit to another months' long investigation as soon as we're given the full bill of health? I don't think we'll survive another round of that level of scrutiny and inquisition. Simon definitely won't. He's liable to crumble at the first mention of the word deposition. At least they've put us into friendly hands, if that's going to be our fate. The Wellbeloves have been far kinder to Simon than anyone else in his life. It's a reminder that stings.

This is the life he was raised to have, the life he wanted.

Nothing has gone according to plan since eighth year.

I risk a glance back at Snow who's seated behind Dr. Wellbelove, but he's looking out the window. I can still see his profile, and his reflection in the glass. His expression is blank, but his brow is knitted. He's somewhere else. Maybe he's back in America. Or maybe he's back at Watford. Or maybe he's just anywhere but here.

 _I wouldn't be happy anywhere without you,_ I told him. But he's not even here when he is here.

 _Simon,_ I think at him, _how do I reach you?_

At that very moment, by some miracle of coincidence, he turns around and meets my eyes. He's surprised, like he'd forgotten where he was, or where I was, or maybe just because he wasn't expecting to catch me out staring at him. I don't look away.

I offer him a tentative smile. He smiles back. It's small, and even more tentative than my own, but it's something.

It's not nothing.

I'll cling to that not nothing like a lifeline. Because it is.

We're quiet during the drive to the Wellbeloves'.

I can spot the Bunces' car out the window from time to time, keeping pace.

Bunce hasn't closed her mouth long enough to take a breath from what I've seen.

I've no doubt she and Shepard are doing a better job of driving her father to distraction than he is of driving.

I must be completely insane because I actually miss the sound of their bickering. It was a relief to hear other people's voices in my head instead of just being stuck with my own.

I could do my own questioning. Dr. Wellbelove is a member of the Coven, and he's used to us (Snow and Bunce at any rate) being involved. I wager he wouldn't bat an eye if I asked for the details about what's happening at Watford. About Fiona and Headmistress Bunce. Whether anyone has talked to Nicodemus, and what he's told them. If the dark creatures have gotten into the Catacombs. But I don't want to. I don't want to know. Just for a little longer.

"Your mother's very anxious to see you, Agatha," Dr. Wellbelove suddenly announces, as if we weren't all being happily suffocated into submission by the overbearing silence in our souls.

Wellbelove makes a sort of humming sound in her throat. "It will be nice to see her again."

"Of course, we've kept your room open for you. Anytime you feel like you want to come home."

She doesn't answer this time.

It's hard to tell if he means come home as in to visit, or come home as in to live.

Dr. Wellbelove's face is a mask, but there's a sort of desperate energy in his eyes, and his knuckles are too white on the gear shift to be considered calm.

He doesn't know what to say. How to tell her that he misses her. That he loves her and wants her to see that staying is the best thing for her.

Well, join the club.

"How's the programme coming along then?" He tries again.

I've been doing my best not to think on university while on summer holiday, and up till now I've been a bit too busy with murderous hordes to give it any thought. But as Wellbelove natters on about professors and teacher's aides and advisors, I can feel myself slipping.

I think about next term. I think about next year. I think about the fact that Simon is probably not going back to uni. We never talked about what happened last term, but I'm sure he failed all of his courses considering that he stopped attending lectures.

I can't really blame him for that. Snow's _penchant_ has never lain in academia. I don't think he was ready to be thrust back in. But we all needed a fresh start, and university was the next logical step for Bunce and me. And Simon was part of the package. We'd all move to London and go to uni together (even if I didn't live with them and went to LSE on my own). When you don't have a plan for the rest of your life, that's the plan. It's the plan everyone else follows. But Simon Snow isn't everyone else.

And expecting him to fit that mould will lead to failure every time.

University is what Bunce and I want. But what does Simon want?

"Have you given it any more thought, son?" Dr. Wellbelove asks, changing topics and calling my attention back to his conversation.

_Given what any more thought?_

"Uh, yeah," Snow admits, and he ducks his head. His cheeks are flush with blood. (How long has it been since I fed?) He rubs at the back of his neck, at his newly shorn undercut. How can someone be such a mess and still so gorgeous all at the same time? Only Snow will ever have the answer to that particular mystery. "I-I have. I guess. I mean, yes."

"Good," Dr. Wellbelove says, switching on his turn indicator and pulling off the road into his driveway. "Whenever you're ready."

 _Ready? Ready for what?_ I'm _not ready._

"Today, even. Assuming you're up for it."

"Oh," Simon says, his head popping up. He looks like a wild animal that's just realised it's been snared. "T-today?" He gulps. Beautifully.

"It doesn't have to be."

"I'll think about it."

I keep my eyes on Snow as we pry ourselves out of the Volvo. There's a tenseness around his pouchy eyes and in the set of his broad shoulders. He rolls them, like he's trying to stretch the wings that are still spelled away.

That's when it hits me.

I feel the air punch out of my chest, as if Simon has tackled me to the ground with the full weight of his body and driven out all my breath with the impact. (I know exactly what that feels like.)

I should say something. _Shouldn't I?_

We need to talk about this. _Don't we?_

Ultimately it has to be his decision. Maybe it's not my place. (My place is with him. Next to him. Under him. In his arms.) (Sheltered by his wings. Wrapped up in that fucking tail...)

I try to move my lips, but I can't make my voice work. Can't make my words come. Can't get my breath.

 _Snow,_ I want to say. _Simon--_

But then what?

Everything narrows to a single point as I watch him walk into the dark of the house and be swallowed up by it.

_But I don't want to lose you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.


	3. Cross to Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences (and the Coven) come knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst. Maybe even some... **plot**. _What?_

I'm pacing.

I've been pacing for a while now. For an indeterminate amount of _while_.

I'm pacing and I'm trying not to think, but it's not working. It's never worked for me. It doesn't even work for Simon these days, I don't think.

Snow and I didn't have a chance to talk after we got inside. Not that we would have taken advantage of it if we did. We've never been known for our sparkling communication.

Despite Bunce's insistence, I absolutely refused to allow Dr. Wellbelove to examine me, and he was good enough not to force the issue.

I'm sure he already knows. It's starting to feel like the whole world knows. There's a high probability it will, very soon.

I make another turn through the Wellbelove's sitting room.

Dr. Wellbelove did give Simon the cross he used to wear, as a talisman to protect him from me. Maybe he thought he was just humouring a scared little boy by gifting him a priceless mediaeval family relic. Or maybe he thought he was actually protecting that little boy from his vampire roommate and arch nemesis.

Did Simon give back the cross? Or does he still keep it somewhere I haven't found it? (I haven't gone looking for it.) (I think I'm afraid of what it would mean if I found it. I think I'm afraid of what it would mean if I didn't.)

I make another turn.

Wellbelove was swept off by her mother immediately after we arrived, flashing the rest of us a pleading look over her shoulder, but I was hardly in the mindset to try to rescue her again.

I haven't talked to her, either. But I don't really know what there is to say at this point. _I only pretended to like you all those years because I was secretly in love with your ex-boyfriend and trying to come between the two of you by manipulating your emotions was my only strategy, but I'm actually a decent person once you get to know me?_ She's smart enough to have pieced all that together herself. (Well, maybe not that last part.)

I'm not really to blame for their failed relationship, I was just unscrupulous enough to exploit it. Snow was the one who decided to spend their entire first year together stalking me through the Catacombs and neglecting his new girlfriend. Back then, his definition of romance was saving his lady fair from the latest flavour in the villain of the month club.

Maybe things haven't changed all that much…

Another turn.

Bunce is sitting in the corner, pouting, arms folded. She had wanted to go with Simon, too, but Dr. Wellbelove put us both off. She's still very unhappy about being forced to stay out of the business at Watford. I can almost see her making columns in her head: "Everything We Know" and "Everything We Don't" and also "How to Get to Watford Without Getting Caught". I would sympathise with her worry for her mother, but Headmistress Bunce is the fiercest magician I've ever met. If her husband says she has the matter in hand, I'm inclined to believe him.

Besides, Fiona's there. At Watford. My aunt may be misguided at best most of the time, but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...

Anyway. I've hardly the capacity to worry over either one of them at the moment. I'm far too consumed with worry for Simon.

Another turn.

Shepard has been keeping himself and Professor Bunce occupied by asking about every single magickal creature and cryptid in the UK: banshees; selkies; will-o-the-wisp; the Owlman of Mawnan; the Loch Ness Monster; the Hound of the Baskervilles. He's found a kindred spirit in Professor Bunce, who is too much a scholar not to share everything he knows, to his daughter's continued dismay.

If he's trying to distract her from escaping, he must have succeeded because she hasn't managed it yet.

But I won't be distracted.

Another turn. Turn, turn, turn…

I've spent the entire time Snow has been in with Dr. Wellbelove pacing like this and making myself as close to physically ill as I'll ever get.

I haven't been able to keep track of the minutes after they disappeared through that office door, though I have been trying to keep track of their conversation (vampire ears). I wanted to go with them, hold Simon's hand (if he let me), but Dr. Wellbelove thought it would be easier on Snow if I wasn't there hovering. Maybe he could sense how tightly wound I was feeling. That probably wouldn't have been helpful for Simon. He'd looked apprehensive enough. He kept stroking his tail, which had come untucked from his trousers at some point.

I felt like reaching out and yanking him back by it.

I keep an obsessive eye on my phone, but no matter how many times I glance at the numbers on the clock, I can't seem to remember which direction they're moving.

I can't seem to remember which direction I'm moving.

_Turn, turn, turn, there is a season…_

_Bloody Snow and his bloody classic rock…_

Surely, it's been too long for a routine check. The tests and the questions keep piling up on the other side of the door. _What does that mean_?

The other voices in the room wash over me. I barely register their meaning anymore. They have no meaning. Nothing has any meanting. All that matters is Simon.

Simon, alone.

Simon, injured.

Simon, bent and broken and face down in the dirt with his wing bent back, riddled with bleeding holes...

What if he's still hurt?

What if Bunce and I missed something? What if it isn't something Dr. Wellbelove can treat?

 _Turn, turn, turn_ …Maybe we missed our turn.

What if Simon decides to have his wings and tail removed?

What if he decides he's ready to cut me loose, too?

 _I'll always have to hide!_ I'd told him. _So will you!_

But maybe Simon doesn't want to hide with me.

He could choose. He could have his dragon parts removed and be done with it all. Be done with magic. Be done with me. Then he won't have to be a monster. Like me.

Turn.

(I Turned a long time ago.)

He could choose. I chose him, but that doesn't mean he has to choose me. To keep choosing me.

That's when I hear it. The quiet, strained tinkle of a bell ringing.

I'm on the verge of bursting into Dr. Wellbelove's office, when someone else bursts into the Wellbeloves' front room.

_(Had that been the doorbell?)_

Several people file into the foyer.

A whole plague of them.

The entire bloody Coven.

Well, most of it, anyway. Not the Old Families. I'm not sure what to make of that. Are they at Watford with Fiona? Or is this somehow my father's doing? Is that why he's not here? Is that a good sign? Or did the Old Families abstain out of consideration to me?

 _Are_ they here for me?

Will they at least let me say good-bye to Simon before they drag me away? Or will we be able to handle this whole sordid affair right here, in the Wellbeloves' sitting room?

The door to Dr. Wellbelove's office opens behind me at the same time one of the Coven members pushes their way past the Wellbeloves' maid, Helen.

And then, we're all standing there, facing each other, the tension like a bow dragged ruthlessly along our strings.

That's when I feel it. A five-pointed star burning into the small of my back and I nearly fall to my knees at the relief that washes through me with that one touch. But the relief leaves devastation in its wake, because this may be all I get now.

"Now, Balthazar," Dr. Wellbelove speaks first, clearly struggling to keep his tone even. "We've talked about this."

_Have they? Is that what's been happening here? Is that why Professor Bunce and Dr. Wellbelove have both been acting like the magickal world isn't falling into chaos outside of this house?_

"I'm sorry, Wellby," a man apparently called Balthazar says. (I've not bothered to keep track of the newer Coven members.) He raises his hands palms up. He doesn't sound very sorry. "We just don't see what other options we have."

I feel the hand on my back pull in on itself, balling up the fabric of my shirt (at least it's one of those awful poly-cotton blends Shepard found at Target). Every muscle in Simon's body is preparing itself. He's about to go off on _The Coven_ and I don't think there's any way to stop him. I don't know if I want to.

Something runs along my ankle, winding around my jeans. _Is that--?_

Dr. Wellbelove lets out a sigh. "Simon, son, I'm afraid we were trying to keep it from coming to this. But..."

"The situation at Watford has escalated," Balthazar interrupts. "The dark creatures have taken control of all access points and our spells aren't working to breach the wards. They're asking for you, Mr. Snow."

The Coven isn't here for me.

The Coven is here for Simon Snow, disgraced Chosen One, fallen angel, and saviour of the World of Mages.

Because he hasn't already given them enough, apparently.

They won't be happy till he's actually given his life this time. (That is why they're here. We all know it. Simon's had a target on his back since he was eleven years old. That sort of thing doesn't get washed away. What better way to avoid disaster than offer him up on a platter?)

He'll go along with it, too.

That's who Simon is. That's who he's always been. Abandoned. Passed around. Taken under the protection of a fascist because of what he could do, not who he was, and he disappointed there, too. A Speaker who can't speak; a mage without magic. The Greatest Mage and the Insidious Humdrum.

Simon, who would give anything if it meant he could be useful. If he could earn a place in the world. Prove that he was worthy.

He's already given so much. What did he get out of it? A lifetime of trauma and not so much as a thank you on his way out.

After everything that happened that Christmas, the Coven spent three months picking apart the tiniest details of Snow's life, trying to determine his role in the Mage's death. A man who literally died rather than stop hurting Simon for even a second of his life. The same man who murdered my mother. And the goatherd. We're all paying for his sins now.

Simon was supposed to go up in a burning ball of fire in the big battle. But that battle never happened. And Simon lost his fire before he was able to perish by it. He's bereft and adrift. He's hit his lowest point. And now they come to him.

Well. If they want him, they're going to have to pry him from my cold, undead hands.

"No," Simon says, his voice scratchy and quiet. There's something about the way he says it, the way he's holding himself when I look back at him in shock, that reminds me of the scared little boy who showed up that first day at Watford. (Except that he's not wearing a shirt. And he has wings. And a tail.) _(Still.)_

It's unnerving. (The posture, not the dragon parts.)

_Is Simon actually saying no?_

"I-I can't. I'm sorry, but you-uh, you'll have to get someone else."

And just like that, he turns around and leaves the room, all of his fight gone out of him.

We all stand there stupidly in our collective disbelief, watching him go.

"Um. Is anyone going to go after him?" Shepard asks. "'Cause that was one devastated dude who definitely should not be left alone right now."

I shake my head, steel myself, and make my move.

I'm not even out of the room before I hear: "Balthazar, right? My name's Shepard. I'm from Omaha, Nebraska. And I should probably warn you, my last encounter with a coven did not go well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.
> 
> The lyric "turn, turn, turn, there is a season" is taken from the 1965 recording by the Byrds of the Pete Seeger song _Turn! Turn! Turn!_


	4. Speak Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz tries to have a real talk with Simon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some actual communication! Finally! (No one ever said communication was easy, right?)

I don't know how much time we have.

With the Coven, or with each other.

But for a moment back there, I truly believed I had been outed. That the Coven was going to snap my wand and pull my fangs and strike my name from the book. Just like Nicodemus.

Or maybe they'd take the humane route and just set me ablaze. Because that would be more humane (so to speak) than a future cast out from everything I've ever known.

I've gotten to see firsthand how that sort of life picks at a person until they're little more than a festering sore.

Simon Snow and I have been living on borrowed time our whole lives. This may very well be my only chance to speak.

I am a Speaker, for snake's sake. I got top marks in Elocution and Magic Words. I can cast in four languages, and I've even picked up a few spells in Spanish from Bunce. I survived a vampire attack at the age of five (mostly). I lived through the Insidious Humdrum, a six-week stint in a fucking coffin, a chimera, three dragons (although Shepard did offer a significant amount of help with the last one), and a vampire turf war in a quiet zone.

But fuck if I can't say three simple words to my boyfriend.

He's the only thing that strikes real fear in me, because he's the only one who can actually hurt me.

But I don't suppose that's something I should share. I can't put more pressure on him.

I find Simon outside, looking up at the sky. It's a London summer sky, infinitely duller than what we've endured over the past week. For the first time since Chicago, I feel like I can fully open my eyes.

How do I open Snow's?

"I thought they were here for you." I'm a little surprised that he speaks first.

"So did I."

"Reckon your secret's still safe."

"That likely won't be the case for much longer."

He turns toward me, still squinting a bit. "What will you do?"

You. Not we. I try not to read too much into that.

"I've always known it was a possibility. I seem to recall it coming up frequently at school."

_Off to a strong start, Basilton._

"Shit. Baz, I--"

He's tugging at his hair in that absolutely adorable way he has. I decide to be daring and reach up and take his hand, easing it away from his much-abused curls. He doesn't startle, but when I loosen my grip on his hand, it falls away. He doesn't try to maintain the contact. I tell myself not to take it personally.

"I intend to just go on living my life the way I want to," I tell him. "I think that's all I can do."

"How's that?"

"What?"

"How d'you want to live your life?"

"Oh."

I don't have an answer ready for him because I wasn't anticipating the question. I don't think Snow and I have ever really talked about our future or our plans. We decided that it was better for us to grow as people and adjust to being a couple if we stopped living together. We discussed university. And then we stopped talking. About all of the important things. And then about all of the little things, too.

"Well, I want to finish university. And then I think I want to get my master's. I used to think about going back to Watford. To teach. Carry on my mother's legacy. Some of her research."

"Not anymore?"

"You mean, if there's a Watford left once the dark creatures are done with it? I don't know."

"What changed your mind?"

I give him a close examination. (As close as I dare while he's bare to the waist.) He's still squinting up at me, but otherwise, his face is so open. It's all there. The fear, the pain, the uncertainty (the moles). Is there love, too? Do I have a right to ask for it with everything else on his plate?

There is a curl drooping down over one eye and it's blocking my view of his mole there. I'm tempted to brush it back. I'm tempted to twirl it around my finger. I'm tempted to bury my nose in it and inhale.

I'm trying to decide whether it's safe to answer his question honestly. Will he hear me if I do? Will he listen? Will he panic?

"You," I say, and I'm surprised, because I didn't mean to say it. Simon looks surprised, too. He leans back a bit, as if trying to avoid the word, and nearly sets himself off balance on the small concrete step, flapping his wings and whipping his tail out to right himself.

I can't stop myself from reaching for him. When I come up with his tail gripped tightly in my fist, I want to apologise, because it feels too intimate. More intimate than holding his hand, which he almost never lets me do anymore. I don't usually touch his tail, or his wings. I barely touch him at all. He always shies away. So I've stopped trying.

I've read about trauma. I've read about post-traumatic stress disorder. I've read about touch aversion. I've read everything I could get my hands on. (Because I can't get my hands on _him_.)

(Maybe it's not even that complicated. Maybe it's just me.)

But Simon just looks at it, at his tail in my hand, or maybe at my hand around his tail. And he doesn't say anything. It's almost like he can't decide what he thinks about it. Or maybe he's just decided he's not going to think about it at all.

I decide I'm not going to let go. I'll take whatever I can get. (And I like his tail. I don't know why he has it, but that doesn't mean I want it to disappear.)

 _Well,_ I think, _if I'm going to do this, then I'm going to do it all the way_.

"You," I repeat. "I didn't think you'd want to be around all of that anymore. Watford, and the magic, and the research. I know how hard it was for you to come back for my leavers ball. I couldn't ask you to go through that again."

My leavers ball. I held his tail then, too. It felt like I was tying us together as I wound it around my hand. He let me hold him so close to me.

Simon looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He turns away, looking out at nothing. His jaw is working and he's gorgeous like this and I want to kiss him. I want to crowd up against him and bury my face in his neck and feel his arms around me and leach up all his warmth for myself. I want to be wrapped up in those wings so that the rest of the world can never reach us.

 _Say it,_ I think at him. I'm practically screaming it inside my head. _Say it! Just fucking say it!_

"Say it," I finally burst and he jerks at the violence in my tone. "Just say it, Snow. Tell me what you're thinking. Please. Just--please."

"You were planning all this out. You were planning it _around_ me. You had to change your whole life to try to fit me into it. Because--well, because I'm _this_!"

He gestures at himself, and his wings shudder. Instead of holding his tail, now it's holding me. It winds tighter around me in his distress. I try not to preen with smugness that his instinct seems to be attaching himself tighter to me. I'm sure he doesn't even know he's doing it. He does have control over his tail (I've watched him use it very effectively in a fight), but most of the time, he just lets it be.

"My boyfriend?" I ask. And it's close. It's so close to what I actually need to say.

"An absolute fuckup! That's what I am. A fuckup with dragon wings who can't go out in public and flunked out of uni and doesn't have a job or money or prospects. I can't do anything right. I can't--Merlin. Why are you still with me? Why did you stick around?"

It comes out then. Finally. Finally after nine years it pours out of me like a flood bent on wiping out all in its path with its vehemence. And it's too much, and it's too loud, and it's too angry. But it comes out just the same. And in its wake I feel so light, it's almost like being lifted up by Simon's wings. (On love's light wings.) "Because I'm in love with you! Why do you think?"

I wait. I wait for agonising seconds. I wait and wait and wait and I know it won't come. I know it won't come, but I still wait.

Then, finally: "Baz..."

Just like we're back on the beach. Just like we're back in his flat.

"No," I say, and my voice sounds fierce. "No, Simon, you're not doing this."

"What?"

"You're not breaking up with me after I've told you I'm in love with you and was going to build my entire life around you."

"Christ!" He swears, throwing his hands up. His tail whips out again, flicking itself from my hand. "Y-you don't get to do that! I'm so tired of it! I'm not made of bloody glass! You don't--I mean, were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to go on plotting our lives together because you don't think I can handle it?"

I feel stricken. My mouth is dry. (I need to drink, but now isn't the time to think about it.) I honestly don't know how to respond. "Simon, I--"

"Don't tell me I'm wrong. Don't say it, Baz, because I know you think that. I know you think I can't handle anything. I know I'm not anything anymore, all right? I don't need you to lie to my face. I can't even survive a bloody road trip without having to be stitched back together with your fucking spells. I don't want it anymore, okay? I don't want your magic! And I don't want your fucking pity! I just--" he's crying now, shiny tears streaking down his face "--I'm done, okay? I'm just done. I have to stop pretending."

That last word sparks something in me and then I feel like _I'm_ going off.

"Pretending? Is that what you've been doing all this bloody time? Fucking _pretending_? Oh, that's lovely. Thank you so much for that. Fine. You want to be done with me? Fine. Clearly, there isn't anything I can do right here."

"No! That--I didn't--shit. I didn't. Baz, wait. I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."

I try to force myself to calm down, but my next words still come out a roar. "What then?"

"I don't belong with you."

His voice is so small; he sounds utterly defeated.

"Snow. Simon. We've been over this."

He shakes his head, his whole face bent with pain. "No, I'm not--this isn't--"

He's struggling, and I want to be patient. I want to be encouraging and wait for him to get through it, but it's never been this hard to hold back.

He rakes his hands through his hair, tugging on it and growling. "Look. I don't belong in this world. With you. And Penny. I can't keep hanging on like this. It--it just hurts too much. Baz, it hurts and I'm so tired, I just..."

I want to reach out for him. I want to hold him. But I don't think he'll let me. Not right now. Not when he's like this, a feral animal. With those wings and that tail and the growling...well, it's not a wild stretch of the imagination to picture him actually breathing fire and putting me out of this misery.

"I can't do anything. I can't help anyone. I don't-I don't know what I am without that. But I can't be this. I can't be a hero."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero. I'm just asking for you to be here, with me. Just be here with me, Simon. I've never wanted anything more than that. Crowley, that's all I've ever wanted."

"You don't want this me. You want the old me."

"Don't tell me what I want! Nobody gets to do that but me."

"I heard her, Baz!"

"What? Heard who?"

"Penny. On the beach."

I try to think back. To remember everything that happened, everything we said, everything Bunce said. There are very clear and distinct moments, and the rest is blurred away. I remember Simon sitting there, with the sun tangled in his hair and the waves on his legs. I remember my mother's scarf and the swell I felt inside of me, like the tide coming in, when I thought about Simon finding it and keeping it safe for me. I remember that feeling sinking just as quickly when he told me I should stay behind, with Lamb. Then that way he said my name, like it was deliverance and penance all at once. The certain knowledge that despite chasing across an entire country, somehow we'd ended up exactly where we'd started, back in his flat. At the end again.

"The beach?" I prompt. "What did Bunce say on the beach?"

"She said 'Baz'."

"I don't understand."

"'Baz'," He puts on a false imitation of Bunce's voice, "'there's trouble at Watford.' That's what she said. _Baz_."

_Crowley._

"I don't think Bunce meant anything by that, Snow."

"No? Because Penelope's been my best friend since first year and I've saved her life more times than I can count. She could tell you. She's probably kept a record. Then she gets a call from her dad telling her vampires have broken into Watford again, and she rushes out in a panic looking for you."

"Because of what I am, Snow. Because of what happened to my mother. Because it's Nicodemus. Because the whole bloody world of vampires is running riot right now and there's a high probability I had a hand in that."

I can tell by the hard set of his jaw that he doesn't believe me.

"You know, Penny used to hate you," his voice is sour. He's in pain and he's trying to make me feel it. But I won't give in to that. I won't let him win. "The only reason you're friends is because of me."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You want me to stop being friends with Bunce? Because I have a feeling she'll have something to say about you trying to make her choices for her."

"I'm not. I-I'm just--"

"Penelope isn't going to stop being your friend just because she's my friend, too. You're right, you're the reason we became friends. But we're both still in your life, Simon. We're a family." I've never said that out loud, never thought I'd have the guts to, but it's true. "I'm not going to steal her away from you. Nicks and Slick, it's like we're back in fifth year. Where is this even coming from? You can't tell me that all of this is about your relationship with Bunce. What do you think I'm trying to take away from you?"

"Nothing!" He shouts. He practically roars. His fists are balled up and he's still sobbing and his face is splotchy and his entire body is vibrating and I don't know what's wrong. "You can't take anything away from me, because I don't have anything left! It's gone, okay? It's _gone_. And I just wish you'd get on with it. Both of you. I just-I can't take this _waiting_."

"Waiting for what?" I'm afraid to ask. But he doesn't answer.

He's not looking at me anymore. He's turned away. He's closed himself off, which is what he always does when things get too hard. Tries to fold in on himself, hide away. The wings make it too easy.

I want to pull him back, pry him open. I want to wrap my arms around him and let him cry into my shoulder. I want to shake him and scream at him. I don't know which desire is the strongest, but inertia wins out and I just stand there, helplessly, frozen in my doubt.

"Just go," he whispers. "You will anyway." Then, so softly, I'm not sure I don't imagine it, "everybody does."

I'm still trying to figure out how to respond to that when we're interrupted.

"Basil." I turn around and look back up at the house. Wellbelove is leaning halfway out of a window on the top floor. "Just thought you'd want to know they're headed your way and they don't look happy."

I nod my thanks.

I expect her to vanish back through the window, but instead she sits down on the sill, lights a cigarette without a match or a wand and takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl out between us like a portent of my impending demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a hard place to break, but I needed to give Baz and Simon some time and space to come back to this with clearer heads and cooler emotions.
> 
> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.


	5. A Fighting Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz decides it's time someone plays hero for Simon.

I can hear them. It's difficult to tell how many there are moving through the house, but it doesn't really matter.

"Fly away, Snow," I tell him. "You don't have to do this. They don't own you. Nobody gets to give you orders anymore."

He looks at me, stricken. Of course that would be a sore subject. (What isn't?) But that was exactly why I said it. He needs to know. He needs to know he has choices and he isn't just bred for slaughter (dealing it or being it).

"We're in the middle of London!"

"We're also all over the Internet. It doesn't matter. And the Coven has already come calling."

He sighs, looking back at the house, then at me.

"Simon."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move.

"I don't get you," I say. "When you thought they were here for me, you were ready to tear them limb from limb. You just told me you don't want to be a hero, but you won't run. Why? You don't owe them anything."

"What happens to you? And Penny?"

"You don't owe me anything, either. I'm not asking you for anything. I've never asked you for anything."

That was probably another mistake if he truly believes he doesn't have anything to give me. 

He still doesn't say anything. I don't know if he would, given the chance. He doesn't get one, though, because the door behind us swings open and Balthazar walks out. Apparently, Shepard's distraction only went so far. I wonder at which point he lost him. The centaur foal, the sasquatch, or the hinkypunk? Maybe it was the tales of his mother Michele's trials and tribulations as a high school Spanish teacher. _Crowley, is it possible I know more about Shepard than I do about Simon_?

Balthazar hesitates in the doorway. I'm sure he can feel the tension pulled out between Snow and me. I can't blame him for not wanting to get tangled up in it. But I can blame him for showing up unannounced, barging his way into his friends' home, and snapping his fingers, expecting the Chosen One to march to his orders.

Simon's not a soldier. No matter how he's been conditioned.

He's not a soldier, but he is a fighter, and he’s stopped fighting for himself. He doesn't think he's worth fighting for, that much is obvious. The way he grew up, it's not surprising that fighting is all he ever learned how to do. He had to fight to survive. He had to fight _me_. And now he's staring down a lifetime of unknowns, a future he never planned for. He's staring down peace and quiet and he doesn't know how to cope. He lost his first battle and he almost lost his life. He's hurting, but it runs so much deeper than what he lets us see, lets me see, even when we're screaming at each other. It runs so deep, I'm not sure there's anything left underneath it. He was already nothing but a burning ball of pain when we met.

He's stopped fighting for us, too. I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t want me. (I don’t think that now.) But he’s too self-sacrificing. He’s trying to do the right thing and let me go, let me be free of him and his burden. (As if there’s any burden I wouldn’t bear for him.) (As if I don't have a million of my own.) Well, I won’t let him. It’s time I fight for _him_. Fight like both of our lives depend on it, because they do. He chased me into a burning forest and kissed me to make me save my own life; it’s time I repaid that favour.

"Balthazar," I nod at him coolly. "Would you be so kind as to fuck off?"

Balthazar gives me a pitying look. "Come now, Basilton--"

"Where's the rest of the Coven? Do you even have a quorum?"

He rolls his eyes. "You Pitches and your _quorums_. They're all at Watford, with your aunt. I would think you'd want to be there, too."

I would. But a bigger part of me would like to make sure Simon doesn't get killed. "What is it you think we can do that the entire Coven can't accomplish?"

"It's not that we can't handle the situation--"

"You did come here to ask for help, so..." I fan my hands out in front of me, mirroring his gesture of helplessness from earlier.

"I've told you, we're unable to breach the wards."

"Wards your lot set, unless I'm mistaken. Unless the vampires all have wands now."

If this turns out to be some more Next Blood bullshit, I swear to Merlin I will set every last one of them alight myself!

"Petty's done something to the gates, hasn't he?" He rubs along his neck in that way of all those who are lost for ideas. "Always figured it was his sister who was the real powerhouse."

"Yes, well, I suppose we've all underestimated him, haven't we? What exactly is it we can do for you?"

"Well, they want to talk to _him_ , don't they?" Balthazar flicks his chin in Snow's direction. I'm not sure if Simon is looking at us, but he hasn't tried to move.

"What is this, a hostage negotiation?" I scoff, but I don't think the idea is quite as absurd as I would like for it to be.

Balthazar tries to puff up and his theatrics only convince me I was right.

"Pitches don't negotiate for hostages. I'm sure my aunt would have told you that if you'd bothered to ask her."

"Well, I'm not here for you, Mr. _Pitch_. We're a bit stretched thin at the moment. Although, Nicodemus Petty has some interesting theories about you."

I feel a hand on my arm. Simon. Simon Snow, he of the outrageously overgrown saviour complex, trying once more to save me.

But if Petty told the Coven that I'm a vampire, they obviously didn't believe him or they'd already have dealt me my punishment. Unless they're sparing me in the hopes of using me against him. Or using me against Snow, to blackmail him into cooperating.

It could be political. The Coven is still fractured, the Old Families still trying to guard their power. None of them came here. If Balthazar and his allies try to take me down, they risk retaliation from more than one feral half-dragon. (Though if they were smart, they'd be far more scared of Snow.) And Nicodemus may be a Petty, but I'm a Pitch. I'm the son of Watford's youngest headmaster, the heir to one of the oldest and most powerful families in all of magic.

They're afraid of me.

_Good._

I sneer at Balthazar. "You can't honestly believe your pathetic attempt to intimidate me will get you anywhere." I look down, examining my nails. (My cuticles are impeccable, even after tearing two dozen vampires into pieces.) "Either you're completely wrong and it makes no difference to me whatsoever, or you're absolutely right, and the best thing for me would be to let Nicodemus Petty perish at the hands of the dark creatures. I have yet to hear any sort of convincing argument from your side."

"Would you like to discuss your activities abroad?"

 _Fuck_. I have to head him off before he provokes Simon into doing something rash. Time to make use of my silver tongue.

"As a matter of fact, I would," I say, looking back up. Best to let him know I'll not be bullied. I make eye contact and I hold it.

"Baz," Snow is tugging on my arm now, but I don't budge. I am a vampire and he may be strong, but I'm stronger.

"I was rather expecting we'd get some sort of a medal," I go on. "Perhaps you didn't get the full story, considering how thinly you've been stretched." I may not get another opportunity, so I lay it on thick, cocking one of my eyebrows. I can feel Snow working himself toward a bluster behind me, desperate for action. Impatient as always. I try not to let myself get distracted, even though I know how gorgeous he gets in a bluster.

This is no longer just about keeping Simon from going off on another suicide mission. This is about all of us now. Watford, too. I'm not foolish enough to believe that anything there will get solved without our involvement (honestly, what does anyone else _do_ with their lives?) but I'll be damned (again) if we go in at a disadvantage. Pitches may not negotiate for hostages, but we certainly know how to negotiate. "We did subdue the masterminds behind the conspiracy. The entire American magickal community is in uproar over the Next Blood. The mages are in utter disarray, and most of them sound just as predatory as the vampires. If we hadn't acted swiftly and without mercy, you could have a very different kind of threat on your hands right now. But the NowNext weren't acting alone. There are vampire enclaves in major cities all across the U.S. and most of Silicon Valley has been recruited. The best case scenario is that in their tireless efforts to achieve their goal, they expose the entire magickal community to the Normals." Best not to linger there, since we could potentially also be accused of that, so I quickly deal my ace. "The worst case scenario is that one of them succeeds in finding the key to our magic and launches an empire the likes of which we cannot even begin to conceive."

I pause just long enough to toss back a lock of hair that's worked its way over my eye. This would be easier with my hair slicked back, like the Ice King Malcolm Grimm himself, but Simon likes it loose. (The sacrifices I make for that man.) (I am an utter lovesick fool.) But the hair toss is still a power move, so I use it. Just for good measure, I flick off a bit of imaginary dust from my sleeve. (I hope the bargain fashion doesn't undermine the effect. I would kill for a decent shirt with a nice crisp set of cuffs.)

"Our way of life is being threatened on every front. The way I see it, Balthazar," just a drop of condescension there, like I'm choosing to use his given name and not like I've completely forgotten his surname, "you've come here because we're your only option. We are _the_ option. And if Petty is right about me" -- _(damn it, why don't I have cuffs?)_ \-- "then you need me on your side. And I will make you one promise."

I draw myself up to my full height and angle my head for maximum menace, narrowing my eyes a bit in the process and letting my teeth show. (My fangs are still tucked away.) "If Simon Snow comes away from this with so much as a bruise, I will show you exactly _what_ I am."

Balthazar flinches a bit at the way I bite off the end of my threat. If he really does think I'm a vampire, then he shouldn't be so shocked at my readiness to go for the throat.

(His throat is thick and ruddy and probably quite a meal. I decide not to think too much about it.)

This next step is critical. I lean back slightly, giving him some breathing room. "If you and yours would be good enough to wait for us back inside, we'll come find you when we're ready to talk. I'm sure Helen will be able to keep you watered and fed."

And then I turn my back.

Snow is openly gaping at me. He never was much for a poker face. It doesn't matter. Balthazar won't be looking at him. He'll still be staring at my back, and he is likely also gaping. But I can't let myself look. I have to wait him out. So instead I just let myself focus on Simon and his lovely blue eyes. He doesn't break my gaze. Snow never gives up any ground. (It's unfairly attractive.)

Without another word, I listen to the door open once more, and Balthazar departs, his (metaphorical) tail between his legs.

Absurdly, I hear someone clapping and look up to realise that Wellbelove is still seated on her windowsill, cigarette long gone, applauding my performance with a look of only mild mockery. I roll my eyes and call up, "would you make yourself useful and grab Bunce and Shepard? We need to have a talk."

"What makes you think I'm getting roped into this?" She calls back.

"You want to stop the Next Blood, don't you? I don't think Watford is an isolated incident. I think the vampires are moving. All of them. And we need a plan."

Wellbelove's face hardens in a way I've never seen on her. "Right."

And then she vanishes.

I assume she's doing what I asked.

I don't have a chance to turn back to Snow. He's grabbed me by both sides of my face and pushed me up against the back wall of the house. My mouth pops open in shock, and all my careful cultivation of thirty seconds ago evaporates in the wave of heat from his eyes. His breath mists over my face and into my mouth. "Baz," he says, and there's a question there. It's not the white flag of defeat this time, but something equally fragile. "Can I?" His voice is barely there. I nod my head. I can't speak, not when he's this close. I don't even know if my head moves, his hold on me is so tight. But he must be able to feel my intention in his fingers because then he's pushing his mouth up into mine.

I suppose I made a decent showing for myself, even without the cuffs.

I close my eyes and lean into it. He juts his chin forward (Crowley), licking into my mouth like he hasn't eaten in days. (Fuck, I need to feed. But I can't think about that right now, not when Snow is _in_ my mouth.) (All I'd have to do is just bite down...)

His buttery popcorn smell is all around me, invading my nose the same way he's invading my mouth. I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't move. (I mean, I suppose I _can_ move. Super strength and all that. But why would I?)

Simon Snow is kissing me like I've got all the answers to the universe inside of me and he can coax them out with his tongue. I'm willing to let him try. I'd be willing to let him do just about anything. (Not just about. Anything.)

I am well and truly pathetic. And also stupidly in love.

My right hand finds its way up into Snow's curls all of its own accord. I dig in deep for purchase, trying to trace each strand as I scratch over his scalp. My left hand strays to his back, to that enchanting grafting of skin where his wing joins to his shoulder blade. Flesh, but something halfway between dragon and man. Leather and suede.

I can hardly believe that he's kissing me. I don't believe that he's letting me touch him like this.

The brick against my back is warm from the dull summer sun, but it's nothing compared to the sensation of the other sun currently plastering itself to my front. My whole body goes soft with it, basking in it the way I never can in the actual sunlight. I wonder if I can melt into him. Just let go and be subsumed by that needy mouth. Crawl inside and stay there, warm and happy and fully part of him.

(Maybe I really am a parasite.)

But he's the one who bites me. I gasp and pull away, sucking my lip into my mouth.

"Aleister Crowley, Snow. Only you would be moronic enough to try to draw blood from a thirsty vampire while you're mauling him against a house."

He's completely unapologetic, tipping his face up to mine, wearing an absolutely appalling grin. "You were bloody brilliant, Baz."

I try to act like I've not just been reduced to a puddle at his feet. "Yes, well," my voice is still shaky. So are my hands. So is everything. "I've always been brilliant. Are you only just now noticing?"

"S'different when it's not at me," he mumbles.

It's like a splash of cold water to my face. (And other places that shall remain nameless.)

If Snow doesn't believe me when I tell him that I love him, maybe it's because I spent seven years telling him I hated him and mounting a merciless campaign of verbal offensives most likely to drive him to tears fastest.

_Why am I like this?_

We don't have time to unpack all of that right now. I'm not sure there will ever be time to unpack it.

As asked, Wellbelove appears, having gathered Bunce and Shepard on her way. Even Professor Bunce came along. I'm not sure how much use he'll be, but I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. He has managed to do some absolutely fascinating research into the nature of the magickal atmosphere. (Not that any of that is relevant to our current situation.) (At least as far as I know.)

"Basil, what's going on?" Are the first words out of the younger Bunce's mouth. "I thought the Coven was going to drag Simon off."

"I wouldn't just let them drag me off." Simon objects under his breath.

"I have to admit," Shepard is rubbing his jaw, like he's in the middle of a brainstorm. "I'm underwhelmed. I thought there was going to be a tribunal." He nudges Bunce's arm. "You told me there would be a tribunal."

Bunce rolls her eyes so dramatically, I'm afraid she may tip over with the effort. "Yes, well, I wouldn't get too disappointed. We do have a murderous mob of dark creatures trying to hold the magickal world hostage so they can kill my best friend."

"Isn't that just Tuesday for you all?"

"I hate to cut in," I cut in, "on your ill-timed banter, but on the topic of the murderous mob of dark creatures..." I trail off significantly. "Would it be too much trouble to discuss some kind of a plan?"

Bunce immediately switches into action mode. "I've been making a list."

"Of course you have," Wellbelove sighs. "'Everything we know' and--"

"Everything we don't," everyone but Bunce finishes.

Bunce huffs and crosses her arms. "Well, at least I _have_ a plan."

Which is a good point, considering how lost for them she was in America. Or maybe just lost.

"All right, Bunce," I say, crossing my arms right back. "Why don't you enlighten the rest of us?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close! More talk in the next part (I know there wasn't a lot here).
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.


	6. Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a new battle looming on the horizon, Baz makes one last attempt to convince Simon of his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before the epilogue. Also features an illustration I did of one of my favorite scenes! :)

Bunce isn't the only one with a plan.

If you ask Snow, I've been plotting it out since first year. And I suppose I have. It's just not the plan he thought it would be. It's not the plan I thought it would be, either. Back then, I was convinced that I had to kill Snow. That we would meet on opposite sides of the war, champions for our causes, and fight to the death. Over the years, my idea of how that scene would play out changed with my feelings for him, and then again with his feelings for me.

And now, here we are, on the cusp of yet another battle, and I'm all out of time. I keep running out of time. Even though it's no longer Baz versus Simon, it's still the two of us on the front lines. Maybe it always will be. Maybe that's just what life is for us. Maybe there's no avoiding that. Maybe this is who we are. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic.

The why of it doesn't matter. Simon and I are out of time. Again. Always.

The only way I'll ever find the time to talk to him, to really talk, is to make the time.

I briefly, and only semi-hysterically, consider casting _**Out of Time**_ to find out what would happen. Would it take us outside of time? Or run out what little of our clock is still ticking down? Or perhaps simply unravel the very fabric of all reality? Probably nothing would happen. Some things can't be solved with magic.

I wait until Bunce is done giving us the details of her admittedly well-crafted, if needlessly convoluted, scheme for infiltrating Watford.

I can only assume that some of Simon's confidence has returned, because he's planning to join the rest of us. I guess knowing that Bunce's entire plan hinges on him (and the fact that the dark creatures don't know about his wings) must have gone a long way to convincing him that she doesn't think he's dead weight.

I'm not thrilled about the plan, or the fact that Simon has to be present at Watford in order for us to carry it out, but it's a good plan. (Which is making Bunce far too smug.) And I have to let Simon make his own decisions. He's an incredible fighter and strategist (if you can call instinct strategy) and we really don't have a lot of other options.

At least Simon will have a sword this time--part of the Wellbeloves' inexplicable cache of mediaeval artefacts, apparently. He looks practically giddy at the prospect, like a kid on Christmas morning, unwrapping a new toy. (Not an experience he ever had, as far as I'm aware.) I should probably be insulted by the way he lovingly runs his hand up and down along the flat of the blade. (Insulted, or maybe aroused.) But the sight brings back so many memories. Simon with a sword just feels right. Despite what it foreshadows, it's actually reassuring.

We're in the Wellbeloves' attic now, seeking out any useful items that have been squirreled away up here over the years. (It seems the Mage never saw fit to raid this home, because there are plenty of objects of questionable origin. Convenient how he managed to overlook the houses of his political allies...)

The way things are piled up in here, you'd think the Wellbeloves were the ones who are part dragon. (Simon hasn't displayed any hoarding tendencies that I've noticed as yet; Bunce and I have been monitoring the situation, just in case.)

While the others are distracted, I decide that even though magic can't solve everything, it can at least help things along. I catch Snow's eye and beckon him toward me. There's a small all-glass door on one side of the room, which opens out onto a balcony. (Why, I don't know. Maybe this wasn't always an attic. Mage houses tend to house terrible secrets.)

Wordlessly, Simon follows me out the door and coughs a little now that his lungs are clear of the dust. I draw my wand out of my jeans and quietly cast " _ **Silence is golden**_ ," just for good measure. I don't think anyone in the attic will hear us, but there's no reason not to be sure.

We're still facing the back of the house, so there's no real danger of anyone on the street casually looking up and getting a glimpse of Simon's wings. We probably should have spelled them away before the attic (he kept knocking things over), but he said he'd feel better if he could keep them out a little longer and no one argued. I think they make him feel more secure, like a prey animal puffing itself up as a defence against predators. He's starting to feel out of control of the situation and so am I.

"What was that back there?" I ask.

Snow frowns and glances over his shoulder. There's nothing there but a wing and a door. "In the attic?"

"In the back garden."

He doesn't answer. He looks anxious.

I want to just let it go. But I'm done with being a coward. I'm done. I just stood down the Coven, practically admitted I'm a vampire, and told them they could get fucked. "You kissed me. You kissed me, Snow, only moments after you tried to break up with me. And to be honest, I'm not sure I can even call it a kiss, because it felt more like you were trying to draw my soul out of my body and consume it. So, forgive me for being obtuse, but I think I'm entitled to an explanation. Either you want to break up with me or you want to be with me. You don't get to have it both ways. You don't get to kick me to the kerb then snog me against a house."

Best to set clear ground rules now, because I am just pathetic enough to let him do exactly that. (And then thank him.)

"'M'not," He objects.

"That's certainly what it felt like."

"You said I could," he juts out his chin, like he's going to fight me.

"I'm not saying that I didn't want to kiss you. I always want to kiss you. I hope that I have managed to make that clear by now, but if I haven't, I will say it again. _I always want to kiss you_. What I don't want is for you to think that you get to have that even if you don't want this."

"But I do want this!"

"Then, have it!" We're shouting again. We can't seem to stop shouting at each other. If that's the only way we make any progress, then I suppose I'll just have to grin and bear it. I absolutely refuse to cast **_Grin and bear it_** (an atrocious spell for atrocious people). But at least I know that we won't be overheard.

I take a breath. "Simon. I still want this. I have never not wanted this."

"But I'm a rubbish boyfriend!"

I bark out a laugh. I can't help it. This whole situation is beyond ridiculous. "Yes! You are! So am I! If you have somehow failed to notice, we are absolute shit at this!"

Shockingly, his face breaks into a grin and then he starts laughing. And then I start laughing. And then I nearly go pitching over the side of the balcony (which is apparently not very secure), and Simon, winged menace that he is, executes some sort of very heroic evasive manoeuvre and grabs me by the waistband of my bargain jeans and yanks me back to my feet beside him, braced between his body and the wall. Again. (At least the stitching in the jeans held.)

We stare at each other in shock for several heatbeats and then we start laughing again. This is absolutely not how I anticipated this conversation to go.

He moves in closer, his eyelids falling as his forehead presses against mine. I'm feeling brave (perhaps due to the near miss off the balcony), so I reach out one hand and softly brush my fingers along the leather webbing of his wing. I don't really know why I do it. But I want to.

He shivers a bit, but he doesn't pull away. He turns his head and watches the movement. He's wearing that same face from earlier, when I was holding his tail. Like he can't figure out what he's feeling, but it's not all bad.

"Is this okay?" I whisper. I'm afraid to break whatever moment this is.

He swallows (and Merlin that swallow) (if I dipped my head a bit, I could lick his Adam's apple). "Y-yeah." He clears his throat and tries again. "Yes."

So, I keep touching it. I stroke up and down, slowly, softly, not wanting to spook him. And he lets me. He lets me touch him like this. He makes a sort of throaty hum and it sets something alight inside of me and I want to take him into my arms and kiss him. But I don't. I hold myself back. I can do this. I can do this for him. I can do this for us. I want to.

I keep watching him, judging his reactions. I never thought he would let me do this. I didn't think I'd be allowed. I didn't think he'd be comfortable with this. I'm not sure I understand why, but I don't really care. All I care about is him, right now, in this moment, here with me. Fully here with me.

We don't speak. We should. We need to. We have so much that we need to say. But we don't. Because this is more important. This is everything.

 _He_ is everything. And maybe this is the only way that I can show him that.

I forget that we're outside, on a decrepit balcony that could plummet us to our deaths at any second (if Simon didn't have wings and I wasn't an indestructible vampire). I forget that we're not really alone. I forget that the Coven and Watford and the dark creatures are waiting. I forget that I'm a bloodthirsty monster who wants to drain the life out of the man I love.

I stay here, in this moment, with him. I don't let myself think. I just _am_. I don't know if I've ever been able to do that when Simon hasn't been kissing me or touching me. But now I'm touching him and _he's letting me_.

I don't realise that I'm crying until he tips his head back up and stares at me with wide eyes, worried suddenly, wiping at the teardrops that have fallen onto his forehead.

_Fuck._

He's going to ask me why I'm crying and I'm going to have to tell him and we're never going to get back to where we were.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and now that he's wiped my tears from his face, he reaches out to wipe them from mine.

I nod weakly, barely able to meet his eyes.

"What's wrong?

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong." And just then, nothing is.

I smile at him, to reassure him.

"Baz, you're crying. Something must be wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, Snow. I was just...happy."

That sounds utterly pathetic, doesn't it? That being happy for once is so overwhelming to me that I start crying.

"Baz," he says, his voice soft. "Call me Simon."

I blink, because it's so unexpected. He hasn't asked me to call him Simon in months. (Sometimes I slip and I do anyway. But I didn't know he'd noticed.)

He hasn't asked me for anything in months.

"Fine," I say, trying to sound like it's a bother. "Simon."

And then he smiles at me.

"You really want this?" He asks. "To be with me? Terrible boyfriend and dragon parts and no magic?"

I close my eyes and let out a long sigh. "Yes, Simon," I'm sure to say his name just now. "With all of that."

"But you could have anyone, Baz. Pretty much every other bloke in the world would be better than me."

"Well, fortunately for you, you're the only bloke in the world that I'm in love with. And I chose you, remember?"

He rolls his eyes.

I remind myself to be vulnerable. If I want Simon to be vulnerable with me, then I have to be willing to give in kind. "I'm a mess, Simon."

"You are the exact opposite of a mess."

"I _am_ a mess," I insist. I tell myself not to raise my voice. I'll not have this turn into another argument. We had enough of those back when we were enemies. We don't need anymore now that we're...whatever it is we are. "I've spent my whole life cultivating a very specific kind of image just so that no one can tell how much of a mess I truly am. And let's not forget that at any given moment, I am only a spark away from incinerating. I can't even stand here with you without thinking about how appetising you smell!"

"I smell appetising?"

The food part of that rant would be the thing he latches onto.

"Yes, Sn-Simon. I am a vampire. You are a human. You are food."

"How do I smell?"

"Really? That's your takeaway?"

He's got a glint in his eyes. Is he... _teasing_?

"C'mon, Baz. Tell me, how do I smell?"

He's teasing.

I decide I can play along.

"Butter."

He rolls his eyes again (his whole head goes with them). "No. For real. Tell me, what do I smell like?"

"Butter," I repeat. "You smell like a kitchen after someone's made popcorn."

His smile doesn't fade. "Really? I really smell like butter?"

I nod and then he's laughing again. I don't know what's gotten into him, but I'm willing to go along with it. "You smell like butter."

"Cool."

"You are seriously disturbed. Your boyfriend tells you how good your blood smells, and your response is 'cool'."

"Baz, an actual dragon tried to kidnap me and raise me as her own because she thought I was one of them."

"For the record," I say, touching his wing again, "I like your dragon parts."

"You do?"

"I like all of you. And I want you to come back to me when all of this is over. All of you."

He blinks up at me, surprised.

" _All_ of you," I say again.

And then he kisses me.

"For the record," he says, "I want this, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who have made it this far! I truly appreciate you!
> 
> Special thanks to [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover) for helping me embed my artwork.
> 
> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.


	7. Epilogue: There Isn't a Spell for Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the trouble at Watford has been contained, Baz and Simon share a quiet moment on the Great Lawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it! Thanks so much to everyone reading this for sticking with me on this journey. It's been such a great time, even when it was frustrating and angsty.

Simon is lying on the ground.

"What on earth are you doing down there, you numpty?" I nudge his foot with my own.

He laughs and grabs for my ankle with his tail, but he comes up empty because I'm vampire fast. "I'm knackered. Come sit with me."

"No."

"Your jeans are already ruined."

I look at them. Covered in vampire blood (not mine, fortunately). I suppose he has a point. But that's no excuse to stoop to his level.

That's when his tail actually does manage to make contact and pulls me down by the waist.

"Dirty tactics," I grumble, attempting to cushion my fall. I could have cast _**Cushion the blow**_ , but that would sort of spoil the fun, wouldn't it?

"Never claimed to fight fair."

"And what, pray tell, do you claim?" I ask, propping my head on my hand and cocking an eyebrow.

He shrugs. Typical Snow. "Not sure."

"You've time. You don't need to decide anything today."

"Says the man who's had our entire life planned out for years."

I nudge him in the shoulder. "Not years. We've not been together _years_."

"Yet," he adds, and it makes my heart sing. If vampire hearts are capable of singing.

I lean down to kiss that mole on his cheek. Just like the first night...

He promptly ruins the moment by laughing and pushing me onto my back. But I start laughing, too. Because I'll never tire of that sound. He's perfect like this. Glowing like the sun.

He rolls half on top of me, unfurling his wings above us, shielding us, maybe. He bends his arm over my chest, rests his chin on it, and looks down, his face just out of my reach. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You reckon we're gonna be okay?"

"Do you mean, are we going to have to once more defeat a pack of power hungry vampires, or...?"

He pushes at me again. "No. We. Me and you."

"You and I."

"Oi, you are the most insufferable git--"

I cut him off with my mouth. It's the only thing to be done.

"Yeah," I say, when I've pulled away to catch my breath. My voice is too soft. My heart is too soft. It doesn't matter. I think I get to hold onto him a little longer now. Maybe as long as I want. "I think we're going to be okay."

"Are you going to make me go back to therapy?"

"I'm not going to try to make you do anything, Snow. I value what little life I have.”

"Simon," he reminds me. And I smile because it feels good to be able to make him fight me for this one thing. To care enough to push, to ask. To speak up for himself.

"Simon," I say back.

"I'll go if you go."

I suppose that's a compromise I'm willing to make. "Fine. But I'm not seeing your therapist. The last thing I need is to be talking to her, wondering what you've already said about me."

"Fine." Then he smiles. He looks so pleased with himself. Insufferable. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"I don't think agreeing to go to therapy is the hard part of going to therapy."

"I don't know," he says, laying his head down so his cheek is resting on the back of his hand, over my heart. "It took a lot of convincing."

"You can't quit this time."

"It's not quitting if I go back. It's just like...a break."

"Speaking of breaks. Are you going back to uni?"

He makes a face. "I don't think so. I don't think it's for me. Not right now, at least."

I want to ask him what he will do, what is right for him, but now isn't the time to push. We'll get there, but we're not quite there yet.

 _Yet._ I repeat the word over and over again. _Yet._

Instead of retreating completely, I look for a safer avenue. "Well, my nefarious plot is unfolding perfectly."

He lets out a breathy laugh. "Oh, is it?"

"I got you back to Watford, didn't I? And it was hardly harrowing."

"Harrowing," he repeats. "Only vampires and goblins and a few werewolves and worsegers thrown in."

"Exactly. You barely broke a sweat."

He flaps his wings once and then folds them against his back. That's when I see them: stars. The sun hasn't quite finished setting, but here, spread on the clover of the Watford Great Lawn, the tiny pinholes of light in the sky are already winking on.

I reach up and very softly drag the tip of my finger down one of the spines in his wing. It shudders lightly and his eyelids dip a bit. Gooseflesh breaks out along his shoulder. I'm not sure why it's easier for him to be touched on his dragon parts; I steered well clear of them for so long because I thought he was self-conscious about them and it would only exacerbate matters. And he is self-conscious about them. But maybe knowing that I'm not afraid of them, that I like them, helps.

_Small steps, Basilton. Small steps, and we'll find our way there._

"Baz?" Simon asks softly, his voice little more than a stirring in the treetops off in the distance of the Wavering Wood.

"Simon?"

"I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this and maybe we'll see each other again on the next one.<3

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/). Come say hi to me.


End file.
